Shenanigans
by michael1812
Summary: Even far out into the Uncharted Territories, Death still has a job to do. And there s always that one pesky human that gives him the most trouble.


John felt the bullet pierce his heart, like a needle poking through cloth. It hurt for a second. Breathing always hurts when you notice it. It's the difference between inflating a balloon and watching someone else inflate a balloon, and it always looks easier when someone else does it.  
The 'someone else' in this case being the part of John's body capable of controlling his bodily functions, like lungs, kidneys and eyes. His anarchic knees saw an opportunity to rebel against the system and keeled over, and like all revolutions, they regretted it in hindsight.

John kind of figured the floor would feel cold and mercilessly hard, but like all those drunk and dying, the floor felt like a cushion, like a perfect bed had sprung up out of nowhere to comfort him, and he didn't mind. He couldn't get up, so this seemed like the best place to lay low for a while until Aeryn could find him. She was taking her time, though. But she was cool and he was patient, and it's not like he was going to...

"Oh," John said, wondering whether the walls had just been repainted. The air seemed less cold than before. Did someone turn up the heat? It felt nice for a change.

When he got up he dusted himself off and forgot that he was just in a firefight with twelve Nebari Resistance Fighters. He went on as if it were a lunch break, and for the first time in years he never even once reached for his holster. In fact, he didn't even take his weapon with him when he died.

John suddenly remembered dying, but the train of realization in his head hadn't yet arrived at the station. He looked down at the body at his feet and recognized his favorite leather jacket. The body looked really familiar.

 **Excuse me.**

John narrowed his eyes and looked at the robed figure holding the scythe. "Hi."

 **I think there must have been a mistake. Is your name John Crichton?**

The skeleton never moved its jaws apart to speak, instead somehow he seemed to speak directly into his mind. His Voice was deep and booming and seemed to echo through all the corners of his skull.

"Yeah," John said. "You look like the Grim Reaper. Can't say I wasn't expecting you."

 **I must apologize. There seems to have been a mix-up of some sorts. Have you died before?**

John saw Death was holding a small hourglass between his bony fingers.

"Maybe. I'm not sure how it works."

 **Are you sure we've never met before?**

John peered into Death's sparkling blue eyes, like two distant oceans in a black cavern. Death wore darkness like a cloak, and wore it with style.

"I'm sure I would've remembered."

 **Ah, we have a problem then. Come with me.**

Death raised his hand and out trotted a fine breed of horse. Death, by presence alone, could fill a room, but his horse could pin him to any ceiling when mounted. It was as black as his owner. His hooves were massive and well trimmed, and could probably start earthquakes. John always liked horses as a kid, but he liked this horse best just by looking at it.

 **His name is Binky. Come along. I haven't got all day, you know.**

John watched Death climb effortlessly on Binky's back, and as he took Death's bony hand John was lifted as effortlessly on the saddle behind him. Death was stronger than he looked.

As soon as Binky started galloping his already blurred surroundings became even blurrier. A certain trippy sequence from an outdated stellar odyssey movie was mild compared to the inter-dimensional shenanigans a casual ride on this horse could do, but it was over before John could squint. The world was upside down all of a sudden, as John looked up and found himself staring at the roof of a stately mansion amidst enormous grounds. This world was gray and lifeless, like watching an old black and white movie. There was no wind. There was no air. There was no smoke coming from the chimney. No echoes came from the well. Not a single drop of rain fell from the white void that surrounded them. Because that's all there was in the space between spaces. Nothing.

The mansion was just there, like something built from scratch based on a half forgotten dream about an Agatha Christie novel. The unreality of it completed John's dazedness. He did as he was told, going through the motions, but he expected to wake up at any moment.

A servant called Albert fetched Binky's reigns and escorted the horse to the stables the moment they landed.

"You had some trouble on re-entry," Albert stated. "Do we have a new guest? Should I set the table for three?"

 **We will skip dinner today, Albert. We have another clone today.**

"Hey! I'm not a clone! I'm equal and original!"

 **That's what they all say.**

"Right-o," Albert said. "I'll put him to work in the stables, with the others."

 **That will suffice for now, Albert. Until I can find a more suitable place for them.**

Albert pushed John on into the stables, while he guided Binky inside with his other hand. The horse hardly needed to be instructed.

"Nasty business, these clones. Damn that Kaarvok, breaking the system with his darn machine!" Albert said. "Everyone only gets one afterlife, you know. We can't have people be greedy. Those're the rules!"

A shovel was pushed into John's hands and he was shown where to begin shoveling the hay. The stench of the manure stung his eyes. When he looked up, he saw another John, another him, the one from Talyn, silently shoving hay around as if he had been doing it all his life.

"Don't worry. In a few hundred years, once they've got all this soul stuff figured out, you'll be off to enjoy your respective afterlives in whatever way you want. Until then..."

John started shoveling.


End file.
